It's a Costume, Nothing More
by Fiona Vanyel
Summary: Random black chickens running around the Opera House, crystals rolling into dormitories, and costumes being coated with glitter overnight - who could cause such mayhem? Only an impish Goblin King. But how will he fare against the new costume designer?
1. Chapter 1: The Opera Populaire

**A/N...** Oh, dear. Allow me to apologize to all of you in advance for this. The mighty Goblin King (to whom we all must pay homage) decided it was his royal duty to hijack a fanfiction I started for _Phantom of the Opera_, and proceeded to declare himself the Opera Populaire's new Lord, Ruler, Master, and Sex God. The madness that shall ensue is too horrific for me to describe. You'll simply have to read it for yourselves. Beyond that, I offer a mild warning - the first scene of this fic deals with child abuse, though it does not go into graphic detail on the beating itself.

Please enjoy the tale as it unfolds. Right now, Jareth will _not_ let me cease writing about him, so updates should be fairly frequent. (**You** try focusing on anything else when there's a half-naked Goblin King lounging on your furniture talking to you in a distinctly sultry voice.)

Mature'd in advance for future steamy sex scenes and for the first part of this one, as it might be difficult for some.

Many thanks to Dulcetvoice for the beta! You rock.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the wonder that is _Labyrinth_, nor do I own the Goblin King. I'd love to, but I don't. I do, in fact, have at least ten black chickens. One of them follows me around like a puppy. It's a strange situation.

* * *

_A small child sat huddled in a corner, her arms wrapped tight around her knees. Terror showed on her delicate little face, and her eyes were wide with the fear coursing through her veins. Then __**he**__ moved closer, a sick grin on his face. He would have been handsome, had he not had such a twisted look of pleasure distorting his features. His muddy brown eyes leered at her from under scarlet bushy brows, and a strand of his pale, red hair fell across his forehead._

"_What's wrong, brat?" he growled with a vicious laugh, his hands seeming to be long, sharp claws in her childish mind as he reached towards her. "Are you __**scared**__ of me?" Roughly, he grabbed her by the shoulders and jerked her into the air. He'd never been gentle, even when he wasn't in this state. Never had his hand softly caressed her cheek in comfort, or his finger brushed a tear away. Never._

_The little girl cringed back, squeezing her turquoise eyes shut. Oh, how she wanted to just pretend this never happened, to push it all away! If only she could escape, somehow! But she couldn't. She knew that. A soft whimper slipped past her tight throat as she felt his hot breath on her face._

"_Answer me, brat!" the man commanded, shaking her. "What, do you have no respect?" A harsh laugh wrenched its way out of his throat, sounding like the grating of stone against stone, at the way she scrunched her little body up when he shook her tiny shoulders._

_She slowly opened her eyes and looked past the ragged strands of dark brown hair falling across her face to see __**him**__ leering at her. The little girl bit back a shudder, then whispered in a tear-filled voice, "N-no, Daddy." Her tiny voice was barely audible, and came out a squeak on the last. "I-I'm not s-s-scared of you," she whispered, the lie barely managing to make it past her constricted throat, her vocal cords feeling like they were taut as bowstrings._

_His eyes narrowed and flashed. "Don't you EVER lie to me!" he roared, slamming her tiny frame into the wall. "You're scared, I know you are. Now don't lie, sweetie," he murmured, his tone changing. "You know Daddy likes it when you're scared. It makes things more...fun." _

_Terror and panic tore through her. The change of tone was NOT a good thing...no, it was very, very bad. She'd rather he'd been furious and yelled at her again and again than this. No, not this. His voice...it held something she'd learned to fear, to be terrified of. Her whole body quaked, and she closed her eyes again, curling up into a protective ball. "Daddy, please," she whimpered, not understanding what she'd done to deserve this. "Please just let me go. I'll be good, I promise!" she pleaded weakly, desperately._

"_Oh, it's too late for that, sweetie," her father growled softly. "It's too late to change what you've done. You've been a very, very bad girl, and you must be punished." With that, he dropped the child, but held on to her arm and began to drag her to the metal framework._

_She sobbed openly as he dragged her along, repeating the same phrase over and over, "Daddy, please, don't...please, don't..." _

_He ignored her soft plea, and turned her so her back was to him. A sadistic grin splitting his face, the man latched her tiny wrists into the cuffs on the ends of the chains hooked to the device. He then chained her little ankles in too, making sure everything was tight enough that she couldn't move. His eyes were filled with a twisted look of pleasure as he pulled her shirt off, exposing her bare back. Lancing across the expanse of flesh were numerous scars, all relatively fresh. As a result of the stress, a few had reopened and begun to bleed again freely, making dark crimson streams slip down her back._

_The child closed her eyes against the pain she knew would come, unable to understand what she'd done wrong, but vowing never to do it again. A mere moment later, the whip came crashing down on her back, and the tears fell anew._

_At least an hour had passed before he unchained her, as he had left her there for a time, weeping, and returned. Once he was gone again, the little child pulled her shirt back on as best she could, then huddled up in the corner again. He'd retrieve her in the morning, or Mother would, to resume her supposedly perfect life. Mother never beat her, but Mother never stopped Daddy, either. Mother was terrified of him, too, and knew if she helped her little girl, her own torture would be far worse. The girl was fully alone in the world, and in her small mind, she knew it. Closing her eyes against the pain, the little girl hummed softly to herself, a faint, distant smile lifting the very corners of her lips. It was so hard to escape, but sometimes, just every so-often, she could. Music normally did it. The only time when she was free was the first part of the night, the blackest part. She liked the night, even though she was always punished at night. During the nighttime, she didn't have to pretend things were perfect. She didn't have to pretend at all, so long as she was alone. It was comforting, somehow...the blackness, wrapping around her, protecting her. Daddy always made sure there was light when he came in. He took away her blackness, thus, she never associated night with the pain. The child tucked her knees beneath her chin, the faint, distant smile still curving her little lips up. She no longer hummed, but the music played on in her head, faintly, dulling the pain..._

* * *

Carriage wheels rumbled on the cobblestones, their echoes remaining unheard over the bustle of traffic in the Parisian streets. People shouted at the corners and to the sides of the busy street, harking their wares. The driver of the carriage yelled good-naturedly at another teamster, then laughed in response to something the other had said. A child chased a dog almost into the street, swerving just in time. The driver scratched his capped head, mystified that the child could be so foolish. He merely shook his graying head and lightly flicked the reins over the backs of his team of horses, quickening the pace.

The woman inside the carriage knew little of this. The curtains were drawn, and little light seeped through them. She was not the only passenger, which was the only factor preventing her from sweeping aside the curtains and watching the teeming street with fascination. She eyed the young girl seated across from her and suppressed a sigh. The poor thing was so nervous, and goodness knew why! Havens, if conversation had been what the girl needed, the woman would have happily obliged. As it was, she was bored out of her mind, and on top of that, her tailbone hurt dreadfully from all the bouncing. She'd tried to speak with the lithe little girl, but the shy creature had only nodded or shook her head, too nervous or timid to even speak.

The woman was forced to suppress another sigh. To show her boredom would be _most_ unladylike, and there wasn't anything she needed to avoid more than _that_ impression. Just being a woman was disadvantage enough. Needing something to occupy herself, the woman reached into the small purse beside her and pulled out a simple bound leather book. Her turquoise eyes scanned the cover, and a faint smile curved her lush lips. A single lock of dark brown hair freed itself from its tie at a particularly large bounce and fell before her eyes, curling delicately at the end. Well, perhaps curl wasn't the best word- her hair was a peculiar- and unruly- cross between curly and wavy that was impossible to brush out by oneself. The perfidious locks had a nature more akin to the ripples on the surface of a lake recently disturbed than anything so tame as normal hair. Absentmindedly, she nudged it back as she flipped open the worn book, trying to ignore the ache of her rump.

A shout echoed outside, followed by the carriage slowing to a halt. The woman and the girl both jerked their heads up and riveted their attentions on the door, identical thoughts crossing their minds: _Can we really be there? Finally?_

Their thoughts were answered a moment later when the driver opened the door, letting in a sudden flow of sunlight that made the woman blink rapidly and shield her eyes. _Light. A thousand curses on it for being so bright!_ she thought, mildly irritated, though her rational mind recognized the common fact that light couldn't help its brightness. She still liked to vent on it, though.

"Mam'selle," the good-natured driver bowed and held the door open, offering the woman a hand.

Though both his eyes and voice suggested kindness, she didn't accept the proffered hand. With a polite smile, the turquoise-eyed beauty helped herself out of the carriage. She avoided physical contact with men whenever possible, but tried not to be rude about it. It wasn't their fault they'd been born with the wrong set of reproductive organs and were cold, cruel, and heartless by nature…her thoughts were running away with her again. She didn't need to let that happen.

The lady gracefully stepped out, careful not to stumble. She was clad in a long traveling gown of a deep, royal purple at the bodice, fading to black at the skirts, and elbow-length gloves that matched perfectly. Her boots too matched...well, the black at least. The woman looked stunning, a fact of which she was painfully unaware. Her turquoise eyes took in everything...well, at the moment, they were rather firmly focused on the ground. When they lifted, she was forced to stifle a small gasp at the beauty before her- the Opera Populaire, otherwise known as the Paris Opera House. She looked like a small child as she took a hesitant step forwards, skirt billowing around her ankles, and took in the amazing view before her. The building was amazing, far more so than she ever could have imagined. And if this was what the outside looked like, heaven only knew the wonders that awaited her within.

The woman's attention was diverted by the small squeak her fellow passenger made. When she looked behind her, the girl was frozen half-in and half-out of the carriage doorway, her eyes focused on the magnificent building before her. The poor thing's eyes were so wide and her face so pale it was evident she had never seen such splendor in all her life. Now in the sunlight, the young girl was seen to be wearing slightly tattered clothing, but still functional. She carried but a small satchel with her, likely holding all her worldly goods, meager though they may have been.

Graciously, the coachman attempted to help the stunned child out of his carriage, no doubt eager to be on his way. The little woman, however, wasn't expecting his gesture, and jumped when his hand 'appeared' before her. This little jump upset her delicate balance, and the poor thing proceeded to tumble head-over-heels out of the carriage...well, at least she would have if the coachman hadn't caught her. The young maiden proceeded to blush furiously and utter the first words the brown haired woman heard her speak. "Oh, I'm so very sorry, Monsieur!" she stammered, her chestnut eyes widening and her wild blonde hair flying all about. "I-I-I didn't know you were trying to h-help me! Excusez-moi!" the little maiden cried.

With a chuckle, the coachman helped the girl back onto her feet and set her aright. "C'est pas grave. It's all right," he replied, dusting her off good-naturedly. "No harm done, Mam'selle." Once the young girl was relatively secure on her feet, he turned back to the woman. "Your bags, Mam'selle?" The man stood up on the balls of his feet and lifted several traveling bags down from the top of the carriage and carried them to the brown-haired woman.

"Ah, thank you...mercí, I believe, is the word?" she responded, also speaking for the first time. Her voice held an odd accent, one similar to but not the same as a French one. The woman reached up to her neckline and pulled a small purse out, then paid the man. A glance at the frightened little girl brought on a pursing of her lips. Could the child pay for her own fare? Such a fee would likely be all the girl could afford. The woman dipped into the purse again and gave the coachman several extra coins, covering the child's fee. "For the little one," she murmured as she replaced the purse within her gown. The fellow merely nodded, accepted the money, and hopped back into his coach. The child didn't even seem to notice - she was too busy gaping at her surroundings in amazement.

As the coachman rattled away in his carriage, the brown-haired woman took a few moments to gather her dignity about her like a cloak before facing that opera house again. It was in those moments that she saw it - a surprisingly well-groomed black chicken calmly walked by before her, clucking softly and picking up its feet delicately to avoid tripping on the cobblestones.

She stared, the sheer absurdity of seeing a _chicken_, of all creatures, outside the prestigious Opera Populaire, had her speechless with shock. The chicken herself ignored the woman's stare and continued on her way, pecking absently at something vaguely akin to an insect.

After a moment or two, the woman succeeded in regaining her composure, though a slight air of incredulity marked her brow and was highly unlikely to go away any time in the near future. For the most part, though, her expression was carefully schooled into a proper one - showing shock over the presence of a chicken was also _un_ladylike, and now that she was approaching her destination itself, she truly needed no more disadvantages.

A glance back at the young girl with the flyaway blonde hair proved her theory that the other had remained oblivious to the chicken's presence. This was a very...interesting occurrence. However, she deemed it wise to put the entire ordeal behind herself, and continue on her way.

"All right," the turquoise-eyed woman murmured to herself, lifting her gaze to the imposing building before her as she picked up her bags, "time to face the future."

Attitude and expression securely in hand, the green-eyed woman approached the opera house and her destiny with chin held high and luggage in hand.

_Deep breath in...and let it out,_ she thought. With a confidence she didn't entirely feel, she lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and opened the doors to her destiny.

* * *

_Meanwhile, in the dormitories of the Opera Populaire..._

"Ack! Get that damnable clucking fiend out of here **now**!" the normally quite formidable Mistress of the Ballet shrieked, brandishing a broom at a rather harassed chicken. The creature had likely wanted naught else but something to eat and a nice place to lay a few eggs, but was instead dodging attacks and squawking her misery to the world. (She simply _knew_ that broom was actually one of her old, abandoned nests attached to a stick attempting to maim her for failing to get up in the night and relieve herself...elsewhere.)

"Oui, Madame!" one girl called back, trying to herd the black bird out of the room.

The chicken viewed this new body coming towards her as a direct attack on her feathery person, and puffed herself up as much as she possibly could in an attempt at frightening the girl away. A few angry flaps of her wings accompanied the gesture, and sent the girl squealing backwards; ballet dancers were _not_ the bravest of creatures, after all. The hen saw this action as a retreat, and pressed her advance with several fearsome clucks.

At last, the wild swinging of the Ballet Mistress made some sort of progress (though perhaps in the wrong direction) - her broom connected in a swooping motion with the chicken's rump. This did not, however, pin the _black demon_ down. Instead, the angle of her swing propelled the startled chicken into the air.

With a squawk of shock and indignation, the chicken flapped her wings and regained her balance, flying across the room in search of an exit - or at least somewhere to land away from nests bent on revenge and the thinnest pigs she'd ever seen in her life.

Screams rang all across the dormitory as the girls took cover. Feathers flew, dislodged from the frantic bird's wings, and added more chaos to the already panicked environment.

"Get out of the waaaaay! I don't want to be eaten by a chicken!"

"Ah! DEMON BIRD!"

"Keep it awa-a-ay!!"

Amidst the commotion over the chicken, a small, unnoticed orb rolled out of the room. Nothing pushed it, nothing touched it - as a matter of fact, the clear crystal sphere rolled _around_ feet, legs, belongings, and fallen girls to slip under a dresser and disappear from sight.

_About half an hour later, the hapless hen was caught and thrown out of a window, squawking her fury at such an act. The Ballet Mistress had to be fanned excessively and soothed by her pupils before she could even raise her voice to normal speaking volume, let alone her strident yell._

* * *

The doors to her destiny creaked rather loudly, and perhaps...ominously.

She stepped inside, squinting slightly to adjust to the dark interior of the building, and glanced about. The surroundings were lush, beautiful, elegant...everything she'd dreamt of and more. Awed by it, she took a few more hesitant steps, then stood in silence and absorbed the atmosphere. _It's like stepping into another world,_ she thought, eyes back at their normal degree of open due to the eye-widening effect of awe. A firm sense of belonging settled over the woman and imbued her with a new level of confidence and determination. _I will do whatever it takes to stay here. I am meant to be here._

"Oh, mon Dieu, I did not think this place would be so beautiful..."

The woman cast a glance behind her to find the flaxen-haired girl with her wide chestnut eyes staring all about. Hesitantly, the girl took a few steps forward, then stopped and clutched her small satchel tightly to her bosom. She looked scared out of her wits. _Poor thing. I wonder what she's here for?_ After a mere moment's thought, the answer came to her. _She either has no other choice, or she dreams of being a performer._ She shuddered inwardly._ Horrid field._

With no warning, a man's voice boomed from somewhere nearby. "Can I help you ladies?"

Both women were startled, though the older one's hand merely fluttered to her heart as she turned. The little blonde jumped, squeaked, and nearly fell over in her fright. "Mon Dieu!" she squealed, stumbling over her own two feet in her haste to turn around.

The speaker chuckled as he stepped out of the shadows. He was a portly fellow, with a fairly good-natured look about him and small brown eyes. His sparse black hair was neatly combed to the side, and his cravat was tied perfectly. If he wasn't someone in authority, he was certainly upper-class.

"Oui," the brown-haired woman murmured, smiling graciously and taking a step forward. "Monsieur, I am Mademoiselle Roslyn Dominguez. I am...looking for the Madame in charge of...costumes?" A bit of difficulty with the still slightly strange language slowed her speech a hair...but that could easily be construed as awe for the grand surroundings.

"Ah, yes," he replied, giving a nod. "You are Madame Pomeroy's new assistant." The gentleman turned his attention to the little blonde, gave her a polite smile, and raised an eyebrow, clasping his large hands behind his back.

She blinked twice with a puzzled expression before realizing that she was expected to give her own reason for being in the Opera. "Oh!" the child squeaked, clasping both hands over her mouth. "I'm so sorry, Monsieur! I am here to...train in the ballet?" The last came out a question, and she wrung her hands before her slender frame in trepidation. By the looks of it, she was _not_ expected, and was uncertain of her acceptance into the "position."

His eyes narrowed slightly. The portly fellow assessed her, studying the young one closely and looking her up and down. "Hm..." He paced once around her, making the child fidget anxiously under his scrutiny. "You'll have to speak with the Ballet Mistress, Madame Rousseau. I'm not entirely certain she wants more ballerinas, so I cannot say yea or nay."

The chestnut eyes were worried, and their owner swallowed hard. "Y-yes sir," she squeaked. Her chances didn't look good.

"**I will **_**not**_** stand any more of this...this...**_**insanity!**_"

The caterwauling screech came from a side hallway and echoed loudly through the opera's antechamber. Roslyn yelped and ducked, covering her ears. She fully expected _something_ to come flying into the room and knock her for a loop. The young ballerina squealed and dropped to the floor, covering her head and curling up into a ball in an attempt to be as small as possible. The older man sighed, massaging his forehead with one hand, and flinched slightly at the yowling sound. "Here we go again," he muttered darkly, shaking his head.

Half a moment later, a tall, thin woman strode out of the side hallway, brilliant blue eyes sparking with anger. She was gaudily garbed in multiple layers and petticoats in reds, oranges, and yellows. Truth be told, her attire made her look rather like a slightly shriveled peach. As she stalked along, she jammed a rather rumpled red hat with yellow feathers sprouting from it onto her head, completing the odd image. She was followed by a very harried-looking man who was wringing his hands in dismay.

"Madame Pomeroy, please..." he begged, reaching out as though to halt her flight, "reconsider! These things do happen..."

_Madame Pomeroy? Isn't she..._

The peach-woman turned a glare on him fit to melt stone. "Yes, they do!" she shrieked, upper lip curling in distaste. "But **I** will not be around for them to happen to any longer, Monsieur!" Her eyes narrowed and she jabbed a long, twig-like finger at him. "**If** you wish to see me in this establishment **ever** again, I _suggest_ you get _rid_ of the perpetrator of these atrocities. Otherwise, I am not setting foot in this _sham_ of an opera house ever. Again."

"But Madame..." the too-thin man pleaded, swiping his straggly brown hair out of his eyes, "please..."

That woman's blue eyes sparked and widened impossibly. With an enraged _hmph_ and a stamp of one heel, the infuriated woman spat in the fellow's face, turned on her heel, and exited as quickly as she could. The doors to the opera house slammed loudly shut behind her, but did nothing to muffle the enraged shrieks and curses she hurled back at the Opera Populaire with a vengeance dark Hades would have difficulty matching.

_Hell hath no fury..._ Roslyn thought, wincing in sympathy for the put-upon man.

The thin fellow positively drooped, his hand limply falling back to his side. He closed his eyes and slowly pulled out a handkerchief, then wiped off his face as best he could. That done, he rested his forehead on one hand and sighed heavily, looking utterly defeated.

"Another one lost, eh?" the portly fellow half-asked, half-stated. "No terrible loss, old chap. She was a cantankerous, demanding old thing, anyway. I say we're better off with her gone."

His attempt to cheer the taller, thinner man did little good. "But how many more expert designers can there be we haven't hired and subsequently lost?" moaned the stick of a man. "We're running out of options, and nothing we attempt to rid ourselves of that...that..._menace_ works. What more can we do? We'll be ruined," he groaned, burying his face in his hands.

"A-**hem**." The plump gentleman cleared his throat loudly, jerking his head towards the pair of ladies standing nearby. "Monsieur Bellamont, we have...visitors..." he murmured as quietly as he could in the hopes that the other man would hear him and not the two women.

Bellamont jerked to attention, lifting his head and pasting on a smile. "O-of course. Madames..." He bowed low, inclining his head and doing his best to appear perfectly composed and at ease. He straightened, still with that false smile, and slipped the hand with the handkerchief in it behind his back. "What brings you both to our lovely opera house?" he asked pleasantly.

Roslyn opened her mouth to answer but was interrupted by their initial welcomer's voice. "Ah, here we have Mademoiselle Roslyn Dominguez. She is here to help with _costumes_." The other gentleman's eyebrows lifted, and his expression became extremely attentive. "Yes...she was to be Madame Pomeroy's new _assistant_."

"Oh, she _was_?" Bellamont's eyes lit up. He seemed positively delighted. "My, how..._opportune_ her arrival is! Correct, Monsieur Molyneux?"

The woman being discussed was getting a bit nervous. The way the two were talking about her was almost...conspiratorial. The sense of incredible belonging that she'd felt initially upon entering the opera house wrapped tightly around her at the slightest hint of hesitation, and she squared her shoulders. _Whatever they have in store for me, I can take. I can do this. I belong here, and there's nothing anyone can say or do to convince me otherwise._

Monsieur Molyneux turned to the young woman and smiled. "Mademoiselle Dominguez, I have fantastic news for you!" He clapped his meaty hands together and widened the smile. She had a mental image of some predatory beast opening its maw to devour her whole and had to resist the urge to back away slowly. "Monsieur Bellamont is the owner of the Opera Populaire, and as such, he has a great deal of control. So... You've been promoted to Costume Mistress!" he declared, spreading his arms wide and grinning even _wider_.

_The man's part crocodile!_ she thought, eyeing him warily. Then his words set in. "...Costume Mistress?" she whispered, eyes widening. "I...I can't...I'm so honored..." She shook herself out of the stammering she'd begun to smile demurely and dip her head. _Must...be...ladylike... _"Thank you. I'll do my best."

The two gentleman congratulated her profusely on her new position, rattling off the benefits - higher pay, better living quarters, more freedom with the designs, and _so much more_. Monsieur Molyneux then attempted to pat her on the back in a gesture of camaraderie.

Roslyn immediately dodged the gesture in an instinctive reaction. At his slightly puzzled look, she gave a tiny smile. "I...I'm afraid my back is horribly sore from the carriage ride here," she lied, donning an appropriately sheepish expression. "I'd prefer avoiding more pain. My apologies."

He chuckled cheerfully and shook his head. "No need to apologize, Mademoiselle. Carriage rides can be horribly painful. They really should think of smoothing the streets."

The other gentleman, Monsieur Bellamont, offered his hand to her with a relieved and delighted smile. "We're sure you'll settle in just fine, Mademoiselle Dominguez," chortled he.

She steeled herself carefully. _No emotion. This is just a courtesy gesture. We're all right._ With her expression and reactions carefully schooled, she placed her hand atop his, as was appropriate. He bent his head - she cringed inwardly - and pressed his dry lips to the top of her hand. Roslyn had to suppress a shiver of revulsion and the instinct to flee the touch instantly. Her continued composure was by sheer force of will, though she nearly jerked her slender hand free from Bellamont's spindly appendage. "Naturally. Mightn't I see my quarters and meet the others in the costume shop?" she requested, quite desirous of getting settled in (and avoiding more physical contact with these well-meaning but misguided men).

The opera's owner chuckled and waved a hand toward a doorway on Roslyn's left. "Of course, my dear! It's right this way - I'll gladly escort you myself." He paused, noticing the nervous little creature who'd come in with the older lady, and glanced questioningly at Molyneux. "She is...?"

"Oh, Monsieur, I am Sylvie Petit. I'm...looking to train in the ballet...?" Her reply came out a question rather than a statement, and the child shifted foot-to-foot nervously. She looked worried, like she feared they'd send her away.

He nodded, then glanced at the plumper fellow. "Escort her to Madame Rousseau, please." The other man nodded, then made a beckoning motion and strode away. The child followed him like a little lost puppy, still looking frightened and ill-at-ease.

Roslyn felt a pang for the little girl. The poor thing looked as though she was headed off to an execution, a lamb to slaughter! Roslyn's turquoise eyes were a little sad. She wished she could do something, ensure that the girl was able to stay, and see that she was taken care of. That was not in her power, though, and she knew it.

As she followed Bellamont into a corridor, Roslyn saw something out of the corner of her eye. It looked like...another chicken. But...a chicken outside was one thing. One inside was simply unthinkable!

A glance to her left proved her wrong. Another black chicken was calmly walking alongside the two down the corridor.

She blinked deliberately a few times, trying to clear her vision, and stared at the feathered beast. She flicked her gaze towards her companion for a moment. He didn't seem at all perturbed at being accompanied by a chicken, or he hadn't noticed it.

She glanced back at the bird. Still there, strutting along like she owned the place.

Another glance towards Bellamont. Still oblivious.

Roslyn turned her gaze forwards once more, perplexed. _Am I hallucinating?_ she wondered. Asking about the chicken was most unladylike, especially if it happened to be a hallucination. Then they'd think her mad, and off would fly her chances of employment. _This is downright bizarre._

The black chicken walked alongside the pair all the way down the hall to its conclusion, stopping occasionally to peck at something or other, but always catching up. When Bellamont stopped before a door at the end of the corridor, the chicken stopped as well, turned left, and walked through another door. She clucked softly as she went, disappearing within the opening.

A bewildered Roslyn watched the bird go, then turned back to her escort, who'd pulled out a ring of keys. He fumbled with them for a moment, muttering something under his breath in French, then tried one. "Aha!" With a triumphant grin on his face, the spindly man turned the key in the lock and placed a hand on the doorknob. He whirled about to face the new Costume Mistress and smiled almost gleefully. "At last, we are here. Mademoiselle, beyond this door lies your future," he told her, attempting solemnity and failing miserably. "Within are the costume shop, a small designer's room for you to work in, and your chambers. All of which, I will give you the keys to..." He pulled the mentioned keys out of his pocket with a flourish and placed them into her hand. "And now, Mademoiselle, shall we enter your new domain?"

His excitement would've been contagious if she'd been depressed and irritated about being at the Opera Populaire. As thing stood, she was ecstatic about all of this on her own. The wiry man's delight and grin added to her own sense of anticipation, and Roslyn couldn't help laughing softly at his words. She inclined her head with a smile of barely-suppressed joy, watching as he turned the knob and gave the door a shove inward.

Roslyn lifted her gaze in anticipation. Bellamont had stepped politely aside, and was now watching her, awaiting her reaction. She kept her bright eyes fixed on the door, watching its swing, then turned her gaze towards the room no longer obstructed from view by any blockage.

And she gasped.

* * *

**A/N 2...**

No, Jareth hasn't appeared yet. I promise he, in all of his leather and glitter, shall appear in the next chapter. Any guesses on what made Roslyn gasp? And...

**_Review!_** I've become addicted to reviews, so please, grant them to me. I'll love you forever and ever and...

Jareth: -files his nails coolly- Liar, liar...

Fiona: Oh, fine. Bastard. My love belongs to Jareth, and you can't have it. -glares at the Goblin King- Happy, you womanizing pervert?

Jareth: -smirks- Quite. Failure to review is, however, punishable by _certain death_ in the Goblin Court. Choose your course wisely...


	2. Chapter 2: Feathery Dealings

**A/N...** First off, you guys are the best readers _ever_. I've relished every bit of feedback I've received, and adored every comment and story alert. I love you all, and must say thank you for being amazing!

Second, I'm terribly sorry for this incredibly long delay. My muses are finicky and flighty at best. Their conduct at worst doesn't bear thinking about. They simply _adore_ flitting from subject to subject, not to mention starting new stories up out of nothing. I promise you, though, I have been faithfully working on this story since the last chapter was published, and will continue my faithful workings. I will _not_ give up on this story at any point, period. I love it too much to do that.

Third, enjoy the mandatory doses of Goblin King. As promised, I opened with His Imperial Majesty Jareth, King of the Goblins. Haha. There will be much more Jareth in the next chapter as well, along with a bit more insight into the legends of the Opera House....my version, that is.

I hope you all enjoy the tale, and forgive the lack of a beta - I wanted to get the story to you dear readers as soon as possible.

**Disclaimer:** I have not obtained the Goblin King, _Labyrinth_ (though I have a mandatory copy of the film), the Opera Populaire, or any goblins since the publishing of this fic's first chapter, much to my chagrin. I still have multiple black chickens: more, in fact, than at the last publishing. The one that followed me like a puppy has since passed away to chicken heaven...or the Labyrinth, I'm not entirely certain.

* * *

A crystal - the selfsame one that had disappeared from the dormitories during the broom and chicken incident - was rolling across rough stone floors, the sort of floors one would find in a castle. As a matter of fact, the crystal orb _was_ in a castle. It rolled down a long corridor, bouncing lightly when it hit the uneven gaps between large stones, and through a tall, arched doorway.

The room which the crystal entered could be best described with the idea of "organized chaos," though the organized part was quite minimal. Strange creatures wearing mismatched and bizarre clothing milled about, their odd appearances amplified by their simplistic and sometimes guttural speech. They were, as a matter of fact, goblins. Said goblins were laughing, chatting, growling, and swigging a rather profuse amount of their own home-brewed ale. (This "ale" probably tasted something like a combination of stale swamp-water and some type of horse piss. Goblins are not, however, known for being discerning in their tastes.)

Strangely enough, the crystal rolled around feet and ankles, past tankards of ale (and places where the toxic fluid had spilled), between the stubby legs of goblins, and finally came to rest by an elegantly booted foot.

"Hm...which do you think, Squirm?" a strong, smooth masculine voice asked in a clipped British accent. The owner of this voice was also the owner of the foot, and was lounging carelessly across a large chair-like object made of a curved wooden back with light purple curtains draping gracefully down its sides, attached by massive golden rings. He who lounged on the bizarre piece of furniture called it a throne - _his _throne, actually. Though unusual, it was truly a marvelous creation, accented by curving ram's horns at its back.

The man sitting on the throne was even more magnificent than the throne itself. Black leather gloves matching the elegant black leather boots adorned his long, slender hands, and a white poet's shirt with exquisite lace cuffs covered his upper body. The first few buttons were undone, allowing a glimpse of a smooth, pale chest. Draped about his shoulders was a sweeping black cloak with a high collar that seemed to be studded all over with sparkling stars; the lovely garment seemed to have been torn from the heavens and molded to his trim body. He was tall, with elegant, sculpted features and mismatched eyes - one vibrant blue, one rich, dark brown. If his body could be seen, a smooth, lean musculature would be visible, one befitting a king's body. His legs were long, as were his fingers and arms, and he was a slender fellow. His slightly wild hair resembled spun gold, especially in its tendency to craft itself into odd, impossible styles quite naturally. Wisps of it hung down around his ears and across his face, exuding a peculiarly careless splendor. His expression was one of thoughtful concentration.

The goblin whom he had addressed mulled the question over, making a show of thinking hard on the question. "Don't know, Your Majesty," he finally replied, lifting his gaze and shrugging. He scratched the back of his head with a grubby hand, not daring to tell the King that both pieces of parchment looked the same to him. (Goblins may be stupid, but they have a _remarkable_ sense of self-preservation in some areas.)

The King tilted his head to the side and assessed the two pieces of parchment again. "Come now, Squirm. Which one says 'I am the Goblin King, and you'd do well to remember that, you imbecilic fools. Now do my bidding or suffer the consequences' in an elegant manner befitting such a being as me?" he demanded, narrowing his eyes at the goblin in a slightly threatening manner.

Squirm squirmed uncomfortably. "Um...Majesty...uh...I...uh..." he stammered, glancing all about for a non-existent escape route.

"Are you completely incompetent?" The Goblin King asked in an incredulous tone, eyeing the little creature before him with a mixture of menace and benign surprise. (It took an expert to mix those two. Only the King himself was recorded to have ever managed such a thing, according to the annals of the Underground.) His eyes widened a moment, then his expression relaxed. A lazy smile curved his lips up, revealing pointed canines.

The goblin quailed, covering his head with both stubby hands and dropping lower. His Majesty smiling was _not_ a good sign.

"Squirm..." The lanky man watched the goblin cowering before him with that same lazy smile. "If you don't give me an opinion in the next five minutes, you'll be dipped headfirst into the Bog of Eternal Stench."

"Noooo!" wailed Squirm, flinging himself on the king's leg and clinging to it for dear life. "Not the Bog of Eternal Stench!!!! Please, Majesty, have mercy!!!!!!"

The King frowned with distaste. "Tch. You're getting goblin grime all over my boot. Mm, make that two minutes," he purred, shaking Squirm off and languorously stretching the leg the goblin had been _so_ desperately clutching.

Frantically, the goblin's eyes darted back and forth between the two pieces of parchment. He was in an absolute panic! If His Majesty couldn't choose, how could he? "Um...uh..." He closed his eyes and randomly pointed. "That one, King!" he squeaked out.

Silence followed his answer.

When Squirm heard no reply, he dared to crack one eye open. The King didn't look like he was about to kill him, bog him, or kick him. Then again...the King was most dangerous when he didn't look like he was up to something. Squirm continued to cower, just in case.

"What an interesting choice, Squirm." He didn't sound displeased...just thoughtful.

The goblin straightened a smidge, lowering his hands from their protective position over his head. "I-it is, King? I mean, Majesty?" he asked hesitantly.

"Yes." The King eyed him a moment, then narrowed his mismatched eyes. "Considering you chose neither piece of parchment, but _the ceiling_." The lanky man pointed an elegant finger at the little fellow quivering before him. "Bog."

Squirm vanished. Several of the nearby goblins winced and shook their heads. A few cheered, with varied cries of "Yay King!" "Squirm got bogged!" "YES BOG!" and even a questionable, "Go King, go King..."

His Imperial Majesty Jareth, Lord of the Underground, King of the Goblins, Sex God and Tormentor of the Opera Populaire, Ruler of All Things Glitter, and Inventor of the Criminally Tight Pants stood and placed his hands on his hips, glaring regally around his throne room. He glanced at the goblin still cheering "Go King, go King..." and said simply "Bog." The goblin vanished mid-cheer. _He sounded too much like a bad singer for my royal tastes. A dip in the bog should do him good,_ he thought with a smirk.

Those offending pieces of parchment met his gaze again. Jareth was thoroughly tempted to bog them, too, but decided against it. "Hm..." After a few moments' consideration, he wondered why he'd been so puzzled. The misty-rose parchment was obviously superior to the egg-shell white. The King tossed the inferior sheet of parchment over his shoulder (from whence it vanished into the hands of several goblins, who would likely destroy it very quickly) as he settled back into his throne, propping one leg up on its arm and letting the other hang down again in a lazily regal pose. He procured a quill and an inkwell - both of which floated in midair, awaiting his command - then released the sheet of parchment about a foot over his body. The quill immediately dipped itself in the ink and shifted over to flutter above the paper patiently.

His Majesty waved a hand dismissively at the quill and parchment as he assessed his gloved fingers casually, then cast a glance downward. A smirk lifted his lips when he saw the crystal. He picked it up with all the lazy, kingly dignity in the world. Looking into it brought a gleam to his eyes and widened the smirk. _Haha, I thought she'd cause a good deal of trouble. You're so devious, Jareth old chap._ When the crystal had fully replayed its recorded scene, the King tossed it over his shoulder - unlike the parchment, it vanished - and addressed the parchment and quill. "Messrs Bellamont and Molyneux," he began, tone imperious, cool, and tinged with a British accent. At his words, the quill and parchment reacted, writing his every word in elegant, looping script. "I offer my sympathies..."

* * *

Roslyn stared at the room before her, jaw dropping in a _most_ unladylike manner. _What...what..._

Bellamont stared at the young woman, puzzled. Whatever could make her stare at the room that way? He decided, after a moment's thought, that it simply _had_ to be her lack of prior exposure to such lavish and beautiful surroundings. She was in awe of her new costume shop - that was all. Or so he thought, until he turned with a proud smile on his face, to look at the room himself.

"Mère de Dieu!" he swore, staring in horror at the sight that met his eyes.

Black chicken feathers coated all the eye could see. They were on the floor, on the furniture, in the costumes, all over the sewing machine...not a single bit of space remained untouched by chicken feathers. On top of the chicken feather problem, everything was in chaos. Costumes and fabrics had been torn off their hangers and furniture, scattered across the floor. Rips were present in some of the materials, short, jerky rips that appeared to have been made by some sort of claws...perhaps a bit like those belonging to a chicken.

The new Costume Mistress walked slowly into the wild room and set her bag down. Her gaze swept it in a thorough pass, taking in all the details of the mess around her. _Good Lord..._ She knelt with careful deliberation and picked up a single feather. _It looks as though the End has already come, and black chickens were the method of His Wrath. _A wry smile curved her lips, one Bellamont couldn't see. _He should consider using them. If this is the chaos they bring without guidance, imagine what a group of them could do with a clear purpose and leader._ The mental image she received of a chicken clad in a military uniform ordering about an army of feathered fiends was both laughable...and extremely disturbing.

Once he'd regained his composure - enough - Bellamont stepped into the room. "Mademoiselle Dominguez, I...this is not...the normal state of things. This is...an outrage!" he sputtered. "I am _so_ sorry...this will be cleaned up...as...as soon as possible. I..."

"It's all right," she interrupted softly, still studying the feather absently. "I'll clean it up."

Bellamont stared at the young woman as though she'd lost her mind. "B-but Mademoiselle Dominguez...you are the Costume _Mistress_, not a-an assistant, or a worker...it's not your place!"

"I wish to do this task." She cast a glance aside at the man, noting his puzzlement, then, almost imperceptibly, she sighed. _You need an explanation, don't you? Fine._ "Cleaning up will allow me to gain a better feel for what is here, and what needs to be done. It will also give me a prime opportunity to organize things to my liking," Roslyn said flatly. _Satisfied?_

The gentleman looked relieved. Her explanation did, after all, make perfect sense. "Of course, Mademoiselle. I will leave you to your...organizing." He wanted to add on a 'Why didn't you say that in the first place?' but knew it would be rude, and he definitely didn't want to drive her away. He hesitated, making a useless, half-halted gesture with a hand, then bowed swiftly and strode out of the room.

Roslyn stood and crossed the room to the door, pulling it shut. She inhaled deeply, still facing the door, then slowly turned around to face the room which was to be her workspace. Her eyes lovingly caressed every inch of the chicken-feather-covered chaos as a small, genuine smile curved her lips up. "It's mine," she whispered, staring in wonder. "My own costume shop, my own..._home_." As the import of her words hit her, Roslyn found herself suppressing a most unladylike urge to whoop with joy. The smile turned to a grin that nearly split her face, and she clapped her hands together in delight. She spun about the room, jumping and twirling on surprisingly light feet (whilst being ever-mindful of the fabric strewn across the floor) and laughing as she did so.

At last, she came to a rest in the room's center, eyes sparkling and tiny smile back in place. _Nothing is going to tear me away from this place,_ she thought determinedly. _Nothing. Not even a costume shop strewn with black chicken feathers and costumes nearly destroyed. I will __**not**__ leave. I belong here._

With her mind set and heart beating more strongly than it had in years, Roslyn set to work cleaning the room. She started with gathering the feathers and piling them in the room's centre. The task proved far more daunting than it seemed at first, but she hardly minded - in truth, the brunette was used to an excessive amount of physical labor, and enjoyed it in moderation. If she wasn't able to actually work, she grew bored and frustrated swiftly, which happened to be her true reasoning for cleaning the costume shop.

A few hours later, she'd at last gathered all the feathers. The task would have only taken _one_ hour, but feathers are light and quite prone to blow away. For some _strange_ reason, every single time the hard-working young woman had gathered up about half of the feathers in the room, _something_ - be it the sweep of her skirt as she turned or a faint breeze stirring through the room - had blown the feathers all over again, and she'd been forced to re-gather the whole lot. After the third time, she suspected foul play, and began searching for an entity, be it person or chicken, hiding in some obscure corner. She never found one, much to her annoyance.

Once the room was no longer coated in fluffy black nuisances, the young woman took an assessment of the _real_ damage. More costumes than she cared to think about had rips in them, and fairly major ones. Every costume that had one rip was guaranteed two more near the first, and most had at least twice that. Most of the rips were also jagged, making them difficult to repair. Roslyn began to sort the battered clothing by damage done, allocating some of them to piles her sewing assistants might or might not be able to repair, and making a stack of the most difficult for her own work. The task was mercifully shorter than that of gathering chicken feathers, but far hotter in that traveling gown. (The sole reason the mischievous black feathers didn't blow away again was that Roslyn had packed them all into a canvas bag she'd discovered beneath a small pile of them. By this point, she suspected the feathers had minds of their own. Disturbing thought.)

A furtive glance around the room revealed what she'd hoped for - though her chambers likely sported wide windows, and the designing room was probably more or less _made_ of windows, the main costume shop was devoid of them, save several small, high windows to let in sunlight. They were far out of the reach of anyone wanting to spy, though, and that was what she was hoping for. The slip of a woman skittered to the sole door leading into the costume shop from the rest of the theatre and locked it. A giddy giggle escaped her, and she mentally chided herself. _Roslyn, you're acting like a schoolgirl!_ She shook her head, causing her wavy brown hair to fall across one eye, then rested her back against the door and found herself unable to restrain another giggle. It took her but a few moments to divest herself of the traveling gown and its accoutrements - her entire outer layer, as a matter of fact. Standing there in her chemise, Roslyn felt both shyly exposed and incredibly free. She couldn't resist a spiraling twirl across the room to its center, laughing softly all the way.

After a few moments of enjoying the new freedom and the exhilaration that came with the risk of discovery, she settled back in to her task. Now, though, she hummed a quiet little tune as she worked, contentedly swaying to the rhythm of a song from her childhood. Sorting and stacking the dresses took no time at all, though she found the pile of dresses she would have to repair herself was rather large when all was said and done. Still humming with delight, the seamstress set to work.

* * *

"'...sympathies concerning the recent departure of Madame Pomeroy, your latest Costume Mistress. In retrospect, I must say the woman's name should have been Madame Pomegranate - it fit the oversized fruit far better.' The **nerve**!"

Molyneux slammed his fist into a nearby pillar, then yelped and jerked it back with a savage, though noticeably whiny, mutter. "Damn the man. Damn him to hell," he hissed, rubbing his aching hand and reminding himself that slamming one's fist into a _stone_ pillar was neither conducive to good health nor one's temperament, and one should use a pillow instead. Health and Temper notwithstanding, a fist slamming into a pillow was much less _masculine_ and _fierce_. Difficult decision - was the pain worth it, he mused yet again?

Bellamont's voice brought Molyneux back to the present predicament rather than the debate of his (questionable) manliness. "Oh yes, damning the bastard will work this time _despite_ the fact it hasn't the last, oh, ten thousand or so," he stated dryly, resisting the temptation to snap at his old partner. At the sour glance the plump fellow shot him, he merely twisted his lips in a grimace. "I wish there was _something_ we could do to banish him once and for all!" he growled, slamming one fist into the opposing palm in a much wiser gesture than Molyneux's pillar-smash.

The two highly distinguished gentlemen suddenly clamped their hands over their mouths. They eyed one another in a terrified manner, eyes large as saucepans and expressions horrorstruck. Molyneux finally uncovered his mouth long enough to whisper out a squeaky, "You **wished**! Are you _mad_?"

His thin companion drew in a shaky breath, letting his hands drop. "I think we're all rather mad at this stage. The only question remaining is who will crack first." An attempt at a shaky smile failed, and he resorted instead to tugging a handkerchief out of a pocket and mopping his forehead. The superstitions about wishing that hovered about the Opera House were potent enough to even affect its owners. The two were, however, _much_ too practical to allow such a ridiculous idea into their heads for long.

The plump fellow smoothed a hand over his cravat, calming. "Well. No harm done. Wishes are just words." His statement was as much an attempt to reassure himself as his companion.

"Of course. Ballet dancer's superstitions."

"Superstitions - ha! We're logical men. We don't believe in such things."

"Naturally! We're above such notions."

Both men had puffed themselves up in an attempt to look more masculine and powerful. They succeeded in looking like startled puffer fish. Ah well. Close enough.

Bellamont drew in another careful breath, flicking at an imaginary speck of dust on his chest in a nervous gesture. "Shall we return to this...this..._disgrace_ of a letter?" At Molyneux's nod, he smoothed it out once more. "Now...where was I? Ah." His upper lip curled in distaste. "**That** line."

His irritation and aggravation restored after a mere moment, the portly gentleman hmphed. An impatient gesture encouraged his spindly partner to read on.

A judicious clearing of the throat preceded the reading. "'Regardless of her affiliation - or lack thereof - with nature, I daresay the Opera House is better off without her. She was an insufferable bore.' He dares say _she_ was a bore when _he_ was the one driving her _mad_? 'On top of that, the woman's taste in clothing was positively appalling. Every costume she designed seemed to resemble an overripe fruit. She was making a mockery of my precious Opera House.'"

Molyneux gasped in outrage, scarlet mottling his face. "_His_ Opera House? Will the insults never end?"

His companion nodded in agreement, then went on. "'And did you not say yourself she was "cantankerous" and "demanding"? I think we can all agree her absence is a welcome reprieve.'" Curses. The man had brought logic into it. "'There _is_ the issue of finding a new Costume Mistress. You poor chaps seem to have driven an entire army of them away. You really must stop doing that - I don't want _my_ Opera House to suffer from your ignorance.'" By this point, the two were ready to spontaneously combust from indignation. "'What's done is done. I suppose you'll need to put off your next production. Such a pity. And as a reminder, my monthly tribute is due. I'm in the mood for something...emerald green. Make sure it's suitable, for displeasing me, as you _surely_ know by now, has remarkably unpleasant consequences.'"

The plump fellow swallowed and paled slightly. The last time they'd failed to please Him, it had taken weeks for the stench to wear off their Prima Ballerina. She'd left the Opera House shortly thereafter, pleading her health as the cause. The poor girl had never spoken of what happened to cause the stench, paling and fleeing to the nearest chamberpot whenever the incident was mentioned. This resulted in an uncanny ability on her part to consistently know where the nearest chamberpots were, regardless of her own location.

Bellamont squirmed uncomfortably. Threats like this were not uncommon, and _always_ fulfilled. Skipping over the subject might be his wisest course of action. "Ahem. Oh, _dear_. Here comes his lengthy, self-lauding title again," he groaned, shaking his head at the piece of parchment. "'The Indescribable, Incredible, Ominously Amazing, Astonishingly Eloquent Goblin King, Jareth.'"

The two groaned in unison this time, rolling their eyes. "Insufferable!"

As they moved on to the pressing matter of deciding what to offer the man in tribute - he was notoriously fickle, and prone to accept and reject the _strangest_ things - Molyneux and Bellamont neglected to remember the two little words that had been spoken earlier..._I wish_. Of course, the words couldn't be of consequence. As the gentlemen had said, 'twas merely ballet dancers' superstitions. Naught more. Naturally.

* * *

"Oh, _really_?" A booted foot tapped on the stone floors rhythmically as the Goblin King grinned. "I'll have to remember that, Monsieur. Perhaps I can..._grant_ that request." A devilish gleam lit up his mismatched eyes. "After all, Monsieur Bella_fop_, wishes are my _specialty_."

The wickedly mischievous laugh following his words echoed down corridors and bounced down steps, making black chickens flutter for cover and goblins shudder in sympathy for the fool who'd amused their King.

"King happy. Not good," one remarked to another, shaking his head. His companion shook his head too. "Laugh bad," he agreed. They exchanged a worried look and hurriedly swigged more ale. This situation required drunkenness.

* * *

"Halfway done."

A rather exhausted Roslyn stood and stretched, rolling her neck as she did so. Mending all those costumes, bent nearly double and always stitching with meticulous care, was a recipe for sore muscles and _massive_ cramps. The delight she'd shown before had not vanished, though, merely settled into a sweet contentment.

The irritating breezes, updrafts, flickers of wind, _whatever_ had been scattering feathers all over before, had not resurfaced to bother her mending. It seemed she'd bagged up the annoyances with the feathers, and if her luck held, would not be bothered with blowing costumes. This assumed, of course, her luck had transmuted into "good" rather than remaining stubbornly rooted in "rotten" and attempting to lull her into a false sense of security. Ah, assumptions.

After a few more neck-crackings and shoulder-rollings, the young woman settled her hands on her hips and surveyed the neatly stacked pile of repaired costumes. Finding the necessary implements had been a bit tricky, but the room had held everything she needed, including thread in every color known to man (and some formerly known only to goblins and their rather flamboyant King, but she wasn't aware of this) and needles ranging in size from microscopic to large enough to give a horse a shot. The latter had been a rather disturbing discovery.

A self-satisfied smile curved Roslyn's lips up. She'd really plowed through half of the old costumes and successfully gotten them in working order. Sheer miracle, to her mind.

It didn't take her long to hang the costumes (she'd found carved wooden rods meant for that purpose squirreled away in a massive closet in the rear) and put those she'd finished with away. With a wry expression, she eyed the pile remaining. If these costumes had all been totally finished works with no application beyond the shows they were made for, she wouldn't have bothered repairing them. Many of them came apart into pieces, though, and the pieces could certainly be used again. She was well aware of the effect price had on a production, and knew she needed to make the most of her resources.

The brunette rolled her shoulders again and began a walk around the room. A second assessment ensued as she scanned her surroundings briefly in passing. "This room needs cleaning," she muttered to herself, shaking her head at debris left in the wake of the destruction she'd walked in on. Her nose wrinkled. "I don't think I want to know what that is in the corners..."

Just as she was passing by the windows set high in the wall, a strange sound met Roslyn's ears. _Scrape, scrape, scrape, __**click.**_ She recognized the sound after a moment and whirled towards it, nearly panicking.

A key slowly turned in the door's lock. The knob turned, and the door swung inwards as Roslyn stood frozen in nothing but her chemise.

* * *

**A/N...** Another cliffhanger. I'm a cruel, cruel writer. Anyway, reviews! I'm addicted to them. Please leave them, and let me know what you think.

Also, bonus to anyone who can guess what language Roslyn's name originates in. The first person to guess correctly gets to request something to appear in the story, and I will weave it in. It can be a person, thing, place, or event - I'm not going to limit you, merely state I will take creative license regardless of what it is.

I love you, my dear readers! Thank you for being so patient with me as I **_pounded_ **- I mean gently coaxed - my muses into cooperating. Ahem.

Until next time, I bid you all adieu.


	3. BONUS: Jareth's Letter with Annotations

**A/N...** I'm terribly, terribly sorry for the delay in updates. I've recently undergone a bit of a proverbial Voyage to the Underworld, as it were, this past semester, and been unable to write. I promise I am working at continuing as quickly as can be managed, and offer this annotated version of Jareth's letter as an apology. Please accept my humble efforts at reconciliation, and await the forthcoming chapter with patience.

Also, my apologies for the rough annotated format - I successfully got the html for subscript and superscript, used it, and it worked like a charm. However, when I saved it, the html was wiped. Oif. Can't catch a break, huh?

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own Labyrinth, Phantom of the Opera, or His Majesty, the Goblin King. Christmas is coming up, though...

* * *

Messrs Bellamont and Molyneux:

I offer my sympathies concerning the recent departure of Madame Pomeroy, your latest Costume Mistress. In retrospect, I must say the woman's name should have been Madame Pomegranate - it fit the oversized fruit far better. Regardless of her affiliation - or lack thereof - with nature, I daresay the Opera House is better off without her. She was an insufferable bore. (1) On top of that, the woman's taste in clothing was positively appalling. Every costume she designed seemed to resemble an overripe fruit. She was making a mockery of my precious Opera House.

And did you not say yourself she was "cantankerous" and "demanding"? I think we can all agree her absence is a welcome reprieve.

There _is_ the issue of finding a new Costume Mistress. You poor chaps seem to have driven an entire army of them away. You really must stop doing that - I don't want _my_ (2) Opera House to suffer from your ignorance.

What's done is done. I suppose you'll need to put off your next production. Such a pity.

As a reminder, my monthly tribute is due. I'm in the mood for something...emerald green. Make sure it's suitable, for displeasing me, as you _surely_ know by now, has remarkably unpleasant consequences.

The Indescribable, Incredible, (3) Ominously Amazing, Astonishingly Eloquent Goblin King,

Lord Jareth (4)

* * *

1 - There had been an issue here with the quill: Jareth had requested that it scratch something out, and rather than doing as he instructed, it had written 'no, no, scratch that out.' He'd considered bogging it, then remembered that the quill wasn't really intelligent enough for the bogging to have an effect.

2 - "Italics, italics!" The quill had narrowly escaped bogging once more, but was severely chastised for failing to obey His Majesty's every word and for negligent knowledge of the language.

3 - Here had ensued a debate on the existence of the word "Iloquent," for His Majesty had been in the mood for "I"s, and had insisted it should be a word because he said so.

4 - It is worthwhile to note that Jareth's signature and exceedingly long title were written in English, with a French translation included below for clarification.


End file.
